


Human Resources

by Darklady



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: Comment Fic, Of a sort - Freeform, Other, everyone needs to eat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-13 10:18:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darklady/pseuds/Darklady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has a story.</p><p>Sometimes it the story of how they came to work for Stark Industries.</p><p>(Pretty much unconnected crack. Forgive me.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Talent / Search

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank kepteinen – who had nothing to do with this fic except to inspire it. Indirectly – so don’t go passing blame. ☺ But she did in her fic 'Keep Your Enemies Closer' raise the question of what you do – as a meta or whatever – if you are NOT lucky enough to be a billionaire playboy genius philanthropist. If you are more like… a Community College B average day-to-day sort of person in a MARVELous world.
> 
>  
> 
> ©KKR 2014

“Ms. Branson.” The frowning man behind the desk didn’t even bother to look up as she eased though the door. “I’ve been reviewing your resume. There seem to be some…”

“I can explain about the two year gap.” And oh crap, Sarah thought, there she was interrupting again. That was bad. That was so bad. He job coach would be mad. But she was nervous and… she lowered herself gingerly into the one waiting seat. “I was out of the country.”

Pleasepleaseplease she prayed. Don’t ask where.

“In Genosha, I assume.”

Ouch. That was worse than asking. How the hell did he know? Unless it was just… “Look.” She tried to sound inoffensive. Also unoffended. “If the orange hair is going to be a problem…”

“Not specifically.”

“Because I could dye it. I mean, I don’t like doing that…” Because it gave her headaches and bleaching really hurt. “… but I will. I really need a job.”

Like forget pride. She was down below her last dollar, and if she didn’t get this job she would be walking back to the couch her friend needed her off of by the end of the month.

“I’m a hard worker, I’m very responsible, and I work well with others. I’ve got great word processing skills and I’m eager to learn new programs. I want to build a long-term career. I just need to find the right place.”

Now he looked up. “You think that our company would be a good fit?”

And oh crap, but for a really bland guy he had really not-so-nothing eyes. Something in her – probably the part responsible for survival and evolution – screamed that lying right now would be a really really REALLY bad idea. Which didn’t leave a lot of options except?

Well, there was always telling the truth.

“Stark Industries.” She fumbled. “Your anti-discrimination policy. I’ve been told it’s for real. Some other places… it isn’t.”

“Would that explain your rather short periods with Mega-Mart and Envo-Comp?” He moved a printout to the top of his pile.

“Mega-Mart, yeh. I mean, yes. I was employee of the week there. Twice. Then? Our location got a new manager and he didn’t think I was the ‘right image’ for the company.” And she hadn’t wanted to take the demotion to warehouse work and the 30% cut in pay, so she had walked out. Much of that was being young and thinking things would be fair, but… She swallowed. “EC was a little more complicated. See, that’s in California and one day we had an earthquake. Not really that big but… it shook people up.”

“Including yourself?”

“Well I ducked under my desk, the way they tell you to. But then? Things kept shaking and I panicked and… I sorta melted the desk down over me.”

It had taken the paramedics and the Jaws of Life to get her out. Talk about your embarrassing life events. Then building maintence had needed to scrape the remains off the floor and recarpet. The landlord had been livid.

“So, in simple terms, you want to work at SI because you think we won’t fire you if you over-react and destroy office equipment.”

Ouch and double ouch. “When you put it like that? Pretty much.” 

The paper in his hand went back to the bottom of his stack.

“Not that I’d do that!” she added quickly. “I mean, I’d promise to be really careful. Plus this is New York, so no earthquakes.” 

She tried for a smile. If felt… lame. Judging from the lack of response? It was lame.

“I did pay for the stuff I wrecked, you know. So they didn’t officially fire me for that. But a few months later there were cut backs in the department and somehow – even though there were newer hires – I was the one who got cut. They said it was a decided by peer vote.”

A-peer-ance vote. Not that she was bitter or anything. But if that bitch in accounting who had started the backbiting whisper campaign ever found herself in a dark alley?

“You think Stark employees will be more… tolerant… of meta incidents?

“Umm. Yes?”

And that so should not be a question, should it, but…

“In this, Ms. Branson, you would be correct.”

“What? Really??”

Her fingers melted into the chair arm. She smoothed the bumps out surreptitiously. Oh lord, she hoped he hadn’t been looking when she did that. Had he?

“Reviewing your qualifications? Your experience seems adequate, your background and training is appropriate, and we have a current clerical opening in the Industrial Applications division.”

He waved his hand, and a manila folder floated over from the ranks of file cabinets lining the back wall. One page, header in gold and red, drifted down to rest in front of her.

“Here is our wage offer for that position. If you find it acceptable?”

Uh. She forced her eyes to focus. It was… not great, but not bad. More then she would have settled for.

“Sign at the bottom, read the online employee manual over the weekend, and come in fifteen minutes early to be photographed for your badge.” He sent the rest of his stack of applications over to the large bin marked ‘recycling’. “Assuming you can start on Monday?”

“Oh. What? Yes. Sure.” And lord why couldn’t she shut up already.

“Welcome to SI, Ms Branson. I think you’ll do well here.”

“Thank you.” She smiled as the pen fought its way out of her damp grip and returned to its holder. “I think I will too.”

** The Beginning **


	2. Taking Out The Trash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because, I’m sorry, the Avengers do NOT clean their own rooms. Well, maybe Steve does – but Pepper Potts has a 24/7 job and Tony Stark? Tony Stark would die of dustbunnies first.

Snatching two crumpled pages from the trash, Dona wrote out everything she remembered of her encounter with the strange man. Being cornered in the loading dock. The threats. The promises. The face of the man – what she could see between the stocking cap and upturned collar. Beside that last she added a quick sketch. The result was more biology lab than fine arts, but she felt it would aid whoever was tasked with reviewing the security footage. Below that she sketched his badge. To her it looked like the leftover calamari Lizeth the trash-can lady salvaged from the bar on the first floor, but stocking-cap-man seemed proud of it, so she thought security would want to know.

When finished she folded the paper into envelope form Across the flap she printed ‘RED PLSE BAD MENS DANGER HELP STARK’ – most of those words she could trust, seeing how they were present in the various signs scattered around the freight elevator.

Below this she copied from her work badge +L+O+U+I_S+A+ +S+M+I+T+H+

The result, she feared, would not impress.

Smoothing the second page, she repeated the exercise in her best academic French. When she stumbled over engineering terms she gave up exact replication, putting more effort into the “Vous devez lire les détails de la version espagnole, comme je le crains grandement la Tour Avenger est sous attaque secrète.” Space remaining, she added, “S'il vous plaît ne perdez pas de temps me chercher en tant que témoin. Je vais partir ce soir et acheter une nouvelle identité dans une nouvelle ville, de manière à assurer ma sécurité personnelle. Je devrais peut-être servir Stark Industries plus loyalement, mais notre connaissance n'est pas si longue que je ne peux oublier les avantages de vol.” This she signed with her full name:

Senorita Dona Maria Consuela Louise Amhacutec y Vega.

If she did not escape, at least they would know how to bury her.

Into this second envelope she folded the few bills the threatening man had forced into her palm. She was not certain if he felt it has bought her cooperation, or if he had strategized that - once on film as an accomplice – she would delay revealing him out of fear of her own punishment. The later might be true save that she was an Amhacutec and for all the troubles of the centuries her family had never bred thieves.

She was sliding the second page under the secure lab’s door when the man in the black cat-suit rappelled from the ceiling.

***

The battle was hard to describe, given how she had huddled under a desk with her face on her knees for the greater part of the thumping and screaming.

***

The calamari man was taken off in chains. 

She was taken downstairs to the Human Resources offices.

***

“Interesting background.” The man read down the absolutely blank page laid between them on his desk. “I’m surprised you’re not ranting about how we have failed to… I don’t’ know… protect you. Promote you.”

“Do I look like a barista at Starbucks?” She let her tale trail off. Anyone who could not finish the story was too delusional to waste voice on. “I ran from Santa Amoza with half of a bachelors in Russian Literature. I look for work and the boss says what good am I for except to mop floors? Maybe he is wrong but I am hungry so?” She shrugged. “I mop the floors.”

And maybe she saved a little so she could maybe find something better, but she was supporting three sisters and a brother, and they needed school more than she needed to serve fancy coffee.

The man nodded, as if hearing what she did not say. (Being this was Stark Industries, smart money did not bet no. There were *rumors* about the back rooms in the HR wing.)

Reaching into a desk drawer he pulled out a name badge. 

The HR man laid it on the desk – lining the edge neatly with that of the blank paper.

From Dona’s angle? It looked little different from the one she wore, just a white plastic square with her face printed in blurry pixels over the flaming red Stark Industries logo. The only difference, at least that she could see, was that this card used her actual name.

“This is for Tony Stark’s personal penthouse. With his budget, we could get Russian Novelists to mop his floors. Heck, I could call up three Nobel Prize winners and they’d mop the floors for free.”

A true statement, but not a question. Dona said nothing.

“But you?” He frowned. Not angry, or even displeased, but more the frown of a man walking the many sides of a decision. “If you insisted, I suspect I could find a post for you in our translation department. Your French is remarkable concise, and we do have a small office in Hunahpu.”

“If I could go back to Hunahpu?” In her father’s city she would not need Stark Industries to offer her a job. Or would not have – back before she had to leave her family home in the scrabble of a revolution. But then? Before that night she had never considered that she would need to work at all. Life. It was what it was.

“True. So lets consider a different option. You, Miss Amhacutec y Vega, have a what in employment law we refer to as a unique skill set. You’re honest.”

Clicking a button on his keyboard, he set his printer clattering. In a second, a new page fell into his hand.

“Stark Industries has a current need for an employee with your skill set.”

He slid over the paper. The bright Stark S at the top almost distracted from the very much more interesting number written at the bottom. It was a … nice… number. Not huge. Not ridiculous. But? It was a salary sufficient to cover one’s living, even if one chose to live in the pricy condos that surrounded Stark’s architectural tribute to ego.

She suspected it also came with benefits.

Between the two, she was nearly distracted from the last line of print.

Todos los empleados serán realizar tareas de limpieza superior (ático) los pisos, específicamente incluyendo la limpieza del tostador. Mantener orden y suministros necesarios para las cocinas y los baños. Mantener orden y consumibles necesarios para cuartos de ducha en los niveles de formación. Otras funciones según se requiera.

“So? This much for mopping floors?” She read the small print again, just in case. The toaster line seemed a bit unusual, but she thought she could handle a small domestic appliance.

The HR man smiled thinly, granting the joke but not joining in it. “You’re also expected to do windows.”


	3. Mechanic Wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crossover. Sorry. I just couldn't help myself.

Today was the first day of the rest of Dean's life - and boy did that suck.

Still, Dean thought as he opened the local paper, seeing how Lisa had been willing to offer him a share in her home and her son (his son, Dean's mind whispered). Well, if she was willing to give all that, the least he could do in return was to cover part of the mortgage. So today was the day he would get a normal job.

Scanning the help wanted column, Dean checked off a number of garages looking for experienced mechanics. He could certainly do that, and Singer Salvage would give him a decent job history. There were also some openings for car salesmen. Given all the wild crap Dean had needed to sell people on in the course of past hunts, getting people who actually wanted a car to buy one? Piece of cake.

Also, of course, boring as virtue. (Some would say boring as sin, but Dean had sinned enough to know vice could generally hold your interest.)

He kept reading.

Oh now. *There* was an interesting ad. Private mechanic for CoB Stark Industries. Ability to undertake a wide range of unique projects. Willingness to learn new techniques and deal closely with machinists and design staff. High tolerance for personal risk. Must be available to travel. All expenses. Salary commensurate with ability.

Grabbing a marker off the kitchen counter, Dean swept a thick black circle around the phone number.

Chairman of the Board of Stark Industries meant Tony Stark. That man had a reputation for wild parties and wilder toys. Dean would bet the man had a garage full of classic cars just crying for the sort of loving restoration Dean was best at.

Reaching for the phone, Dean congratulated himself on taking the time yesterday to really detail the Impala. One look at his baby and… yeh… they'd both know Dean was the only man for the job.


	4. What's Cooking?

“After the desert round we have.” The head judge paused, pretending to consult his notes. Jody knew he just liked the drama. That, or he was a mental vampire feeding off of their pain. [Senior chefs generally inclined that way.]

“Mr. Bradford Hardin.” The first nod went to an older man standing behind a cascade of mango and baked meringue.

Hardin nodded back, letting the assembled sous-chefs know that he was pleased but un-surprised.

“Mr. Dennis Wayman.” 

“Yes!” The young man shot up a very unprofessional fist. Still, his almond-crusted chocolate toffee pizza was a triumph worthy of open celebration.

Why ever had she risked the raspberry bao. They looked so small, so insignificant, sitting like three pale lumps on the black plate. Except? The menu list had been heavy on the Asian influences. She visualized the ad again. Personal chef, must know Italian, Russian, Indian, Chinese, and Thai. Patisserie and sommelier skills a bonus.”

“And Ms. Jody Schmidt.”

Oh thank god. She had been sure she was out of the running. Calming her heart, she forced out a polite ‘thank you’. If her voice cracked on the last word? OK. She was nervous. Who wouldn’t be? Plus she really really wanted this job.

One, because – even though she had learned to cook more from the blue plate special than via Le Cordon Blu - she still had more student loans than bartending would pay off in six lifetimes. Two, because she was tired of working two other jobs just to be able to keep that one. (Junior chefs being paid mostly in coffee and connections.) Three, because *being * that broke she wouldn’t be able to afford the legal defense if and when she snapped and murdered Chef Annik Kinlaw. Which would be any day now if that bastard didn’t keep his hands to himself.

The three survivors waited while the less fortunate were thanked, handed checks and new Starkphones as compensation for their interview time, and escorted out by gray-suited bruisers who everyone pretended were Human Resources reps.

More minions, these in white restaurant coats, quickly restocked the test kitchen.

The judged cleared his throat. Again, only for show. He had held their attention since the first introduction.

“This will be the final round. The winner will be offered the post of personal chef to Mr. Stark, with the terms as covered this morning. Should the first choice decline?” This pause was the most dramatic and least functional of all, given that declining at this point would be like stopping three feet from the pinnacle of Mount Everest. “The contract will then be offered to the second, and if necessary the third candidate.”

The other two reached for their notebooks, fingers anticipating the most elaborate and exotic of their personal specialties. Brilliantly French, in Hardin’s case. Astoundingly modern, for Wayman and his experimental molecular cuisine.

Jody sent up a quick prayer – not so much ‘let me win’ (which would be cheating) as ‘let me not throw up over the judges shoes and forever disgrace myself’. She didn’t want to end her days back as a fry cook in he Uncle Bob’s Montana truck stop, and that would be the only place to escape the kitchen gossip if she blew things now.

“Gentlemen – and lady – the final and most important dish on the Stark Tower menu.” He watched - looking from face to face until they were all but twitching. “The Cheeseburger.”


	5. Trick question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those tricky questions that your average resume doesn't cover.

“Ah, Mr. Nathan Summers. Thank you for responding so quickly.” He waved over a chair.

The HR man was entirely at ease, making a marked contrast to the armored mutant hovering over the fake leather reception chair. The visitor’s bulk – even without the added weight of weaponry – suggested he might crush the chair should he try to sit in it.

“Who do you want me to kill?” 

“No one, I hope.” 

“Right.” Nathan Summers – better known outside this room as the mutant leader Cable – shifted uneasily. First, because any sane person would be hesitant when summoned to Stark Tower. Second, because the same sane person would hesitate twice before summoning a warrior as dangerous as Cable. Third – and this was the telling point – because even now – looking at the thin figure behind the cluttered desk – Cable was not at all confident that he was the most dangerous individual in the room.

Stark Industries HR manager smiled professionally. “Which is not to say we won’t pay the full rate for any individual you do need to dispose of, but is not the Stark Industries offer.”

“Kidnapping?” News was out that Captain America had gone to ground. Maybe Stark wanted his personal action figure back.

“Hardly! We have more than enough applicants to deal with as it is.”

Well, that excluded his two primary skill sets. He hunted his memory for another prospect. “Industrial espionage?” Unlikely, given how little was out there that Stark didn’t do better, but he had dealt with Gambit and Sunfire.

“Heavens no.” The smile shifted from polite to openly amused. Cable suspected that the HR man had overheard his thoughts – and agreed with him.

“Babysitter?” He didn’t think that Stark and Potts had gotten that far – not if the tabloids were up to date – but domestic security was the only remaining option that could possible require his unique skills.

“Sitting may indeed be required. As may chokeholds and armlocks.” 

OK. That didn’t exactly sound like the Stark Tower on-site daycare center was looking for experienced diaper changers.

“I have listed the opening as a post-employment interviewer.” The man chuckled softly at some unshared pun. “Mr. Stark has instructed me to ask each and every SI employee one simple question. Your job, as my corporate separation specialist, would be to ensure the termination, in one sense or another, of any individual who answered… incorrectly.” 

Cable glanced at the door. He could make it out. Probably. “And that question would be?”

The smile grew teeth. “Are they now, or have they ever been, a minion of HYDRA?”


	6. Uniquely Qualified for the Job

“Ronin, is it?” Not that the question was in any form other than a formality. Even if an individual did not follow the ‘superhero’ news a single click of the internet would have identified the green and gold armor - not to mention the paired samurai swords. “Do come in.” 

The HR man’s hand indicated the single chair. He showed no surprise, however, when it was ignored.

The cheekbones twitched, indicating the costumed man was smiling behind his mask. “Thought I’d be talking to Maria Hill.”

“Stark Industries has a somewhat unconventional hiring process. Which I know that you know, given the way you broke in to leave your resume on my desk. Impressive resume, by the way.”

“Thank you.” The twitch of cheekbones suggested a smile under the full-face mask.

“Which make me more curious as to why you felt you needed to … let us say… capture SI’s attention with your… unorthodox presentation. Most people tend to use the Post Office. Or the internet. Stark Industries has an excellent electronic submissions process.”

“Most people aren’t as motivated as I am.”

“One hopes not. My workday is long enough as it is.”

The nod agreed that this was obvious, but not something Ronin felt obliged to comment on.

“Still, Mr. Ronin, I do have to wonder why? If it is just a matter of a challenging job with steady hours and company benefits? Well, we do pride ourselves on those things here at SI, but I’m also quite certain Cross Technological Enterprises would welcome you back. When I called to confirm your work history? Augustine Cross was outright lavish in his praise.” The rising note on the last words made that a question, even if the words strictly taken – were not.

“You defeat one alien invasion.” The green-garbed man raised his hands – fortunately away from the paired swords where they had rested. “That sort of thing gets remembered come employee review time.”

“Of course, I have to consider that CTI might welcome you here as well. Their agent of influence, let us say. Douglas Arthur Cartland has been … rather eager to bid for Doctor Banner’s contract. So if this is some industrial espionage plan, some effort to overwhelm our suspicions via pure implausibility…”

“I’m not here for Banner.”

“Really?” The HR man leaned forward.

Opps. The man in the super-hero suit realized that his denial hadn’t come out quite as convincingly as when he had put the words together in his head.

“I’m not here to steal Bruce Banner. Not to hinder his work or harm him in any way, “ Ronin repeated, straining to keep his voice sincere. “Not to injure or work against any of the scientists. Not to steal from Stark or from SI.”

“Strangely, I find myself persuaded. But that does not answer the question of why you do want to join the Stark Industry team.”

“Team.” The word was a whisper, something swept away as Ronan strode forward. “Look, just call Maria Hill. She can vouch for me. She’ll bring me in. Or Stark himself, if he’s here.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” The room brightened, and a single sheet of paper floated forward. A pen followed, hovering above the signature line. “Welcome to the family, Mr. Barton.”


	7. Showtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A job is not always as it appears to others.

“Gunnery Sergeant Bricker?”

A part of her wanted to argue ‘not any more’, but a larger echoed the eternal ‘once a marine’, and the bits of brain remaining were survival-inclined enough to avoid all distractions.

“Agent Hill”. She dropped the useless “you wanted to see me?” Obviously Hill did. Stark Industries did not summon security officers on a whim. Correction – not on irrational whims.

Hill gestured to the second seat. Not, Anita Bricker noted, one formally across from the desk. This chair was to the side – giving an illusion of conversation. 

She sat, but did not relax. One did not advance in Stark Industries by falling for illusions.

“We were impressed by your handling of the Tennessee situation.”

Anita wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “Me too” seemed seemed indulgent. “It was nothing”, on the other hand, was modest to the point of delusion. Holding off HYDRA meta-forces with two tazers and an improvised water canon was the sort of thing that – back in her USMC days – would have earned her free beer privileges for a month.

Hill leaned closer. “Would you be interested in moving to New York?”

“To Tower security?” She hoped her voice didn’t betray her hope. Working either of the two costal offices was the top of the SI pay scale, with New York being the top of the pecking order as well.

“To personal security.” Hill waited a beat, then added “for Stark.”

“Really?” She bounced in her chair. Screw indifference. New York was the top, but Stark was the top of the top. Only Potts had better, and to get on her security team you needed proven meta status and personal references from both Xavier and Carter.

“Your salary and benefits.” Hill passed over a page of pleasantly large numbers. “We cover the dance lessons, and of course any useful cosmetic surgery.”

“Dance lessons?” The query slipped free in the split second before her eyes reached the bottom paragraph; the one just below the uniform photograph. “You want me to be an IRONETTE?”

Maria Hill smiled, bright and sharp as a mortar blast.

“A man who surrounds himself with twenty bodyguards is nervous. A man who surrounds himself with twenty dancers is simply…”

“A jackass?”

“I as going to say ‘Tony Stark’, but your conclusion will do.”


End file.
